


In Your Arms

by Eligh



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint to the rescue, M/M, Tired Phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 20:48:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7729162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint makes it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Arms

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Chef'Special's [In Your Arms](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nLQFjg1UIac).

The concept of safety was not something that Phil had thought much of, at least not recently. Pressures of the job and all that—be it terrorists running rooftops in Venice, tentacle-faced alien threats, or even just Nick’s dagger glare over a grainy blue hologram, safety was not one of the perks of what was, admittedly through a few departmental shakeups, an action filled, fast paced, existentially satisfying position with the… well. We weren’t calling it SHIELD, these days, now were we?

So it’s a bit of a punch to the sternum when Phil tugs his flight helmet off his head and pops the cockpit, looking up with eyes made bleary by all the damn patrols they’ve had him running lately, and finds himself chin-to-forehead with familiar tousled blond. He tips his chin down and smiles despite himself, looking out over the edge of the mini surveillance ‘jet.

“Clint,” he says, a breath exhausted. “Hey. What’re you doing here?”

Clint cocks an eyebrow. “Rescuing you from cruel and unusual punishment, sir,” he says, and sticks his hands in the pockets of his threadbare jeans. His face is tilted up into the sun and, well, he’s beautiful. Like Phil needs a reminder.

“Rescue?” he asks, unbuckling and beginning the slow and laborious process of disentangling himself from the cockpit—he’s not twenty anymore, dammit, and so sue him, he’s stiff.

“Yeah,” Clint says, glancing over his shoulder at something—someone—back on the tarmac. Phil looks up as he swings a leg over the side and just catches a large dark figure duck behind one of the newest helicarrier’s struts. “Mack called, said what’s-his-ass was using you hard and putting you away wet.”

Phil hums noncommittally, focusing on the metal pegs that’ll get him to ground. He stumbles a little on the last one, and just like that, like it’s nothing, Clint’s arms reach out and catch him, steadying on his shoulders.

“There was this whole insubordination thing,” he imparts like a secret, turning in Clint’s grip and smiling like he’s fine, like Clint doesn’t know the whole damn story. It’s easy with weeks of practice, but Clint doesn’t look fooled anymore than he had the day Phil’d staggered in, breathing hard and fists clenched.  

“Insub—sir, you’re the fucking director.”

It’s Phil’s turn to arch his eyebrow. “I certainly don’t outrank the UN.” One of his hands reaches up and holds on to Clint’s nearest forearm, the damn traitorous robot appendage. “And I’m not the director anymore.”

Clint’s lips twist in something like disagreement, but he drops it—for now at least. He doesn’t drop his arms, though, and after a moment he tugs, just a touch of pressure on Phil’s shoulders that Phil—idiot he is—gives into easily, stepping forward and letting Clint wrap around him.

And there it is, that feeling Phil’s got used to ignoring, got used to not having—

Phil inhales deep, not quite a gasp, but not quite not, either.

“Hey,” Clint murmurs, his cheek tilting and pressing down against Phil’s forehead. “I got you, man.”

Phil huffs a little but lets himself be hugged, ignoring the sticky feel of his flightsuit and what is probably the curious looks of any agents milling about the tarmac. _Disgraced Director Coulson, being bearhugged by—well it couldn’t be Hawkeye, could it, isn’t he supposed to be in prison?_

Phil snakes his hands up Clint’s back and settles them between weapons-grade shoulder blades. Hangs on.

“Alright,” Clint says, after what feels like hours. “Let’s go. I’ma fly you home—not in this damn thing, in something we can stretch our legs in, and you’re gonna let me pamper the living shit out of you. You got leave starting this second.”

Phil pulls back just far enough that his hands drop to Clint’s waist. “I do not.”

Clint glances up and to the left, just a split-second tic that screams _lying_ better than any comic-book cat, and then he’s back on Phil, smiling wide and easy. “Whaaat,” he says. “You musta missed the memo, flyboy.” And then he turns, slinging his arm companionably around Phil’s shoulders, and not-so-subtlety begins to steer him in the direction of the cars. He’s making a beeline toward a red smear at the back of the fleet, and Phil gives about two seconds of thought toward dissent before he sighs and scrubs his hands over his eyes.

“I want to take a shower,” he complains, but it’s mostly force of habit.

Clint grins without looking at him. “Sure, when we get home. I got Dog Cops recorded and mac n’ cheese in the crockpot.”

“Macaroni and cheese takes two minutes to make, Clint,” Phil says flatly, but Clint just grins wider. “There is no need to crockpot that particular meal.”

“You’ve got no idea to the sorta things I crock in my pot,” Clint tells him, his fingers flexing reassuringly on Phil’s shoulder. He lifts he free hand and clicks a keyfob, and across the bay, Lola beeps obligingly.

“Fine,” Phil sighs, like Clint hadn’t won this argument ten minutes ago. “One night off base.”

“Sure,” Clint agrees—far too easily—and when he looks over at Phil this time, it’s—well, remember that punch to the sternum Phil was talking about earlier? It’s like that, this time, but about twenty times worse.

“I love you,” Phil says.

Clint’s eyes twinkle. “I know,” he quips, the jackass, and then he’s peeling off his arm and opening Lola’s passenger side door, folding Phil into her soft leather, and moving off. Not without a firm press of lips to Phil’s temple, first, though. Never without that.

Phil closes his eyes and leans his head back, and a moment later there’s the click of the driver’s door, and the rumble of the engine, and Clint’s hand over the back of his own, lacing their fingers.

_Safe_ , Phil thinks, and takes a breath.

**Author's Note:**

> The aforementioned [cat](http://sagacomic.wikia.com/wiki/Lying_Cat).


End file.
